


Booty Calling

by avyssoseleison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Butt Grabbing, Cas manipulates Dean via Butt Grabbing, Crack Treated Seriously, Dean likes having his butt grabbed, Dom/sub Undertones, Drunk Castiel, Drunk Dean, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Manipulative Castiel, Mention of Bottom Dean, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Gay Panic, Potatoes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 15:51:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5211746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avyssoseleison/pseuds/avyssoseleison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt:</p><p>canon!verse first time destiel where Cas accidentally discovers how much Dean likes his butt touched and then shamefully exploits it while Dean is too far up his own gay panic to notice he's being manipulated into buying Cas orange sweaters and shit - until Cas is literally groping him one tipsy night and reality finally sinks in (words chosen carefully)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Booty Calling

The first time it happens, it is an accident.

Dean and him have been arguing about the sort of potato they want to use for their french fries for almost full five minutes – Cas wants to try sweet potato fries, which Dean calls a disgrace for all of the United States of America, fervently sticking to regular potatoes. There has been a lot of eye rolling and gesticulating and grinted-out versions of the other’s name, and from some point on, after Dean has been going into excessive detail about garlic fries Castiel mentally resigns. He did want to try out the sweet potato fries, but having a fight with Dean about this, with no end of Dean budging in sight, he decides it’s not really worth it.

So, Castiel leans forward, closer to Dean, who is standing with his back towards the potato display, and he intends to pick up a sack of regular potatoes, wordlessly give it to Dean, take a silent step back and just move on into the cornflakes aisle, in order to to give both of them the chance to pretend this disgraceful little fight has never happened.

Dean, of course, knows nothing of Castiel’s plan. Which must be why instead of remaining calmy where he stands or letting Castiel pick his sack of potatoes in peace, he shifts. He lets out a surprised little “Cas, wha–?” and squirms where he stands, trying to step away, but ending up somehow closer, with all of his body in confused and unpredictable motion. And just like that and with no fault of the Castiel’s, his hand is suddenly not going for the potatoes anymore, the momentum of it unstoppable, but for something even rounder and much more delicious: Dean’s butt.

He doesn’t even get a proper grip on it, just accidentally strokes over it in the course of his with his potato pick up motion, over one cheek and to the sensitive center of it, then already off it again.

Dean lets out an indignant sound, almost a squawk, flinches with his whole body and then… does nothing. He just lets Castiel’s hand brush over his butt and behind it as well, allowing Castiel to finally grab the sack of potatoes Dean would have wanted, heave it up into his arms and against his body, while Dean remains frozen.

When Castiel curiously peers up at him, Dean is keeping his gaze diligently down and there’s a soft pink hue to his cheeks and ears, making the freckles all over his skin stand out in a way that Castiel can’t help but find alluring.

“Dean?” he asks, because while he does adore the sweet flush Dean’s complexion has taken on, he dislikes Dean with a dropped gaze and a rigid posture. Dean is a man of motion, after all, and a person who deserves to always hold his head and eyes up high. He shouldn’t have to solemnly stare at the onions and garlic opposite them.

The calling of his name seems to snap Dean back from wherever his mind has wandered off to. Which is good in principle, but it also means that he blinks and flounders and takes a hasty step back, eyes wide and framed by the pink.

And as he stumbles away from Castiel, he quickly grabs a random sack of potatoes, shoots off a brief, “You win, we take your potatoes,” and as good as throws them into their shopping cart.

The loud thud of which turns quite a few heads.

The potatoes have barely even hit the bottom of the cart when Dean decides, “Hey, I forgot something in the bread aisle”, awkwardly waves at Castiel and then in the direction of where the bread aisle may or may not be, and bolts.

Leaving behind a lone Castiel, in confusion and with a sack of red potatoes in their cart and regular potatoes in his hand.

*

The second time it happens, it is only half an accident and meant to calm Dean down.

Dean has been on edge ever since him and Castiel have returned from their grocery run, and Sam seems to have noticed as well. When, for the third time that day and for a much higher count that week, Dean just shoves off Sam’s concerns and tells him different variations of “Go eat a dick” or “Stop being so anal about my shit all the time”, Sam finally has had enough and becomes loud and angry.

Castiel is off to the side for most of their fight, as he has known not to involve himself too deeply in the brothers’ fights and whatever is putting a strain on their relationship at any given time. Yet, he too has been aware of Dean’s somewhat changed behaviour; how he has been brusque and short-tempered the last few days, how he has spent a considerable amount of time locked up in his room and how he could barely look at Sam, let alone Castiel.

It hurts Cas. Because he wants to be there for Dean whenever he needs him to and he wishes Dean would know that, no matter his troubles, he will always have a friend and confidant in him.

So, in order to give him a bit of reassurance and support at least, Castiel decides to speak the same language that Dean does – that of actions.

The opportunity for which arises when Sam storms out of the room in a huff and an avalanche of scornful words and with throwing his hands in the air. Because when he does, all the anger and will to fight appears to just leave Dean’s body, making him appear deflated and sad as he caves in on himself.

Which Castiel immediately takes as his cue to step in. He gets up from his seat on the couch and walks over to Dean in confident strides. Without hesitation, he puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder blades and rubs it up and down, in a soothing motion.

Dean doesn’t fight him as he does; in fact, he leans into it. Castiel can feel how his muscles are coiled tightly beneath his layers of fabric and skin, how even the little warmth of his hand seems to be desperately needed.

“You know that Sam is only concerned for you,” Castiel murmurs, hoping that it won’t re-ignite Dean’s anger but help him see. “He is the first to notice if anything is wrong with you, and when he sees how tense you have been the last few days, of course he would try to talk to you about it.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, and he sounds as if he is still rather irritated. “He can shove his concerns up his ass.”

“Dean,” Castiel sighs. He knows that there is little sense in trying to convince Dean to forgive Sam so shortly after their fight, but as much as he wants the brothers to behave harmonically, he also doesn’t want to see Dean unhappy.

Which is why, without thinking and while still drawing big, warm circles on Dean’s back, Castiel’s hand slips a little lower, over the small of his back and then, unintentionally, over the beautiful curve of his behind.

Dean’s breath hitches as he does, and Castiel quickly puts his hand higher again. But Dean doesn’t react with anger or at all even, he just stands there, eyelids drooping, butt sticking out a bit, and allows Castiel to caress him.

Sensing his chance to re-install harmony, Castiel softly recommends, “Maybe you should go talk to your brother.”

And Dean, licking his lip, assents with a breathy, “Yeah, maybe I should.”

*

The third time it happens, it is entirely on purpose.

Dean and Sam have made up rather quickly after their fight – a confused Sam even told Castiel about how Dean came slinking into his room in the evening and apologized for his behaviour and what he said –, so the three of them decide to treat themselves by taking a day off and visiting the mall of the nearest big city.

Castiel has never been to an actual mall before, so the amount of things to see and hear and eat and especially buy is overwhelming. And very fascinating. In his time of watching the earth and all its humans, he has come to see people dress in the most colourful and most extravagant of fashions, of course, but up until now, he has seldom had the chance to be up close to so many different fabrics, fashions and cuts before.

His companions are taking very little interest in the clothing, though. Sam is more keen on visiting every electronics and books store there is, and while Dean is very intrested in entering every book store as well, his main focus seems to lie on the copious food supply.

Castiel indulges himself in the various kinds of food as well – especially because there are a couple of vendors and counters offering different and special types of hamburgers – but Dean seems to downright _blossom_ with every meal he eats.

It is very endearing, particularly so because even though Dean may not be as terse and short-fused anymore, he still won’t meet Castiel’s eyes without his own flitting away and without all of him tensing and fidgeting. So, it’s a nice change of pace to see Dean so happy and relaxed again, and to see his belly swollen and full with all the delicious food he treated himself to.

It has Castiel wanting to treat himself, too, though. He has lived a rather celibate life with the Winchesters thus far, not asking for a laptop of his own, regardless of how urgent the need to return to Hell’s Kitchen might seem, and not for any more space than he needs. Even though neither of the brothers ever asked him to do so, he is not sure how welcome him demanding things for himself and taking up other spaces, such as the garden behind the bunker that he is longing for, would be.

Which is why, any other time, a week or two ago, he might have kept silent about the mesmerizing orange sweater that he only spies by lucky coincidence, when Sam leads all of them to an electronics store next to a small and hidden clothing store.

It is right there, in the shop window, draped upon a mannequin looking incandescent and irresistable and to die for, a hundred, _no,_ a thousand times over.

It is so beautiful and pure, rich and radiant in its colour, in a way that Castiel hasn’t come to see in a long time, ever since he has raised the frayed and torn and yet vibrant soul of one Righteous Man from Hell, healed the remains of his flesh and his wailing soul and then returned him into his rightful and flawless body.

Spellbound and quite possibly gaping, Castiel takes a step closer to the shop window, the call of the sweater too strong to resist, and before he realizes it, he has his hands and nose pressed against the glass, intently staring inside.

“Cas, what the hell are you doing?” Dean’s voice pulls him out of the spell of the sweater, but only because he puts one hand on Castiel’s shouder and the other on his elbow – he is remarkably more tactile when Sam isn’t nearby, like now, as the younger Winchester has disappeared into the electronics store – and turns him around.

Narrowed green eyes look Castiel over, though Dean appears less irritated rather than confused. “Are you trying to scare the shop clerks inside, man?”

“Dean, I need that sweater,” Castiel rushes out.

“What sweater?” Dean asks, eyebrows raised high. He then looks behind Castiel, peering in through the window, without ever taking his hands off Castiel. “Please tell me you don’t mean that ugly-ass orange thing.”

“It is not ugly; it is as radiant as the sun.”

“Did you just _Katniss_ me? And sun sounds about right,” he makes a thoughtful, dismissive sound. “It looks like it might be better off burnt at 10 million degrees. Or at least kept in that dingy store forever.”

“Dean,” Castiel admonishes him. He is well-aware of the inner distress Dean has carried with him for more than a week now, as much as he is of the societal concept of masculinity according to which Dean denies himself certain red and pink hues and bright colours and various other things. But both of these issues are Dean’s issues; they are not to burden or hurt Castiel with. Which Dean must know, too, because as soon as Castiel admonishes him, he sheepishly blinks away and moves his mouth as if to mumble out something, maybe an embarrassed apology, but nothing comes out.

Castiel is not angry with Dean for this – maybe annoyed, but nothing more than that. Everyone has their issues, and so does Dean. Which is the reason for why he decides not to pursue the topic of Dean’s behaviour any further, but for them to move on. But he wants to move on in a way that surely has to do with the issue of Dean just spoke so unfairly about Castiel’s sweater and that Castiel, generally speaking, would want to see resolved. Though, what he intends to do right now is probably not so much ‘resolving’ as ‘exploiting’.

Because instead of maybe brushing Dean’s hands off of him, denying him the pleasure of physical contact that Castiel knows him to be so starving for, and instead of maybe saying words of an equally as unfair manner, Castiel reaches for him. He puts one of his hands on Dean’s shoulder, in a familiar and hopefully distracting way, and the other on one of Dean’s soft sides.

Dean’s breath hitches before Castiel even crowds closer, before he is next to him and all up in Dean’s space, cupping his body with his hands, holding him.

“Cas?” Dean asks in a rough voice, his eyes flitting from the ground to Castiel’s eyes to his hand on his shoulder, licking his lips.

“Dean,” Castiel replies, smooth and reassuring. Because maybe he wants to make use of his knowledge about Dean when it comes to certain things, like how much he likes to be touched, especially at his well-rounded behind, he doesn’t want him to feel unsure or confused. He must already be, going by his behaviour the last few days, and Castiel doesn’t intend to take advantage of his insecurity in this situation, but of the pleasure of it. Because Castiel can get what he wants and still make Dean feel good about it and about himself.

“Y-yeah?”

Castiel brushes his hand down from Dean’s side to his bottom, first one cautious time, then a next when Dean doesn’t freeze up or pull away, just chokes out a little breath and pretends not to have felt any touch. Castiel pulls him closer still, as if all of this was is either a very private or a very threatening conversation in an intimate setting instead of Cas trying to grope his butt at a mall.

“Dean,” Castiel repeats, slow and serious, “I _need_ this sweater.”

“Hum, yeah,” Dean murmurs, pushing his butt back just a little, enough for the tips of Castiel’s fingers to brush over it again, all of his face open and lazy and flushed. He seems almost not fully there. “And I need y– need you to be happy.”

Castiel’s lips quirk up in a smile and he strokes rewardingly over one of Dean’s butt cheek. “This sweater would make me very happy.”

“Then we’ll go ‘n get that sweater,” Dean breathes out, eyes half-closed and all of him so sweet and vulnerable, especially so at a place like this public mall, that Castiel turns him around a bit, more against the window, to shield him from other people’s glances with his body.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says in earnest, and Dean’s flushed little smile is so beautiful that for a moment, Castiel has completely forgotten what he is even thanking him for, if not for Dean being Dean.

*

The fourth time it happens, Castiel finally obtains his garden.

*

The fifth time it happens, Dean seems to be anticipating it. Or, rather, provoking it.

They are working together in the finally used garden all morning, and whenever Castiel passes Dean by, Dean sticks his butt out in his direction, flushes an exquisite shade of pink and talks in a loud and attention-seeking way and sometimes even wiggles his behind a little.

It’s so endearing and irresistable and yet maybe even not entirely conscious that Castiel does not dare give in to it for more than pressing up against Dean from behind that one time. With his crotch against Dean’s butt, his arms loosely around him and his mouth close to Dean’s flaming ear, murmuring out some apology or another about how he urgently needs the exact trowel and seeds that are lying in front of Dean.

As he does so, Dean clears his throat a couple of times, smiles, blushes, and relaxes into their fleeting contact.

Castiel very much wants to kiss him.

*

The sixth time it happens, Castiel is drunk.

The case they have been working on and that, according to Sam’s research, was supposed to take no more than two or three days, stretched out into a whole week. The promised simple Salt and Burn of a ghost turned into hunting a low-class demon that somehow managed to possess half of the town. Whic is why,  as soon as they have properly exorcized and smote the demon, with Dean receiving an injury to his forehead that Castiel gratingly can do nothing about, they ‘skip town’. There are too many people there who wouldn’t take too kindly to an extended stay of theirs, so they decide not to take a risk and head for the bunker right away instead, with blood and grave mud still sticking to their hands.

Halfway home, they stop at a motel for the night, book the only room there is left – one with a queen-sized bed and a squeaky old sofa in the corner –, and drink.

Dean is even more beautiful like this, drunk on the adrenaline of a successful hunt and the expensive beer he insisted they invest in, nothing but smiles and laughter that dissipates into quiet little giggles, all warm and flushed skin and, maybe most importantly of it all, no inhibition in his touches.

And Castiel – Castiel is the same.

Because he can’t resist the temptation of a happy and relaxed Dean, the exposed peek of his belly, the lack of tension after being in apparent turmoil after almost a month now, the way he reaches out towards Castiel, grazes him and brushes against him, offers up his body in mindlessly open postures and with a smile that speaks of nothing but utter trust and affection.

And yet, there is is still that cut on Dean’s forehead that is certainly not sullying, but dulling the picture. Because he knows that Dean only received that injury in order to protect him, needlessly drawing attention to himself when Castiel has had his weapon wrung out of his hands. Of course, Castiel knows to see Dean’s willing sacrifice as a sign of devotion and care, as is tradition for the Winchesters, but that does not change that he loathes to see Dean hurt. Even more so if it is in his name and if he can do nothing about it.

So, with the courage that comes with the alcohol and a lingering, if wearing off fear for Dean, Castiel decides to make use of his ‘knowledge’ once more.

It is when Dean is drawing closer to him on the bed, laughing exaggeratedly about something Castiel has said, and then stumbles on the soft, yielding mattress, landing with half of his body on top of the former angel, that Castiel decides to act.

He takes the wrist of one of Dean’s hands, helping him sit up just enough that Castiel’s knees are not accidentally digging into his belly, so that when Dean plops down again a few seconds after, his vulnerable upper body is lying safely atop of Castiel’s crotch and stomach. Dean breaks out into a giggle fit as he nestles himself closer, and it makes Castiel wonder how lucid Dean actually is.

Just to make sure Dean won’t hurt himself – and because Castiel wants to – he safely cradles Dean against his chest, both arms around him and his hands resting low on the small of Dean’s back.

“Dean,” Castiel slurs out, much to his surprise finding himself to be more affected by the alcohol than he had assumed.

“Cas,” Dean sighs back, nosing into the fabric of Castiel’s shirt, without any sign of shame.

“Dean, I want you to be–,” he pauses, remembering his previous choice of words, which has already proven to work excellently before, “Dean, I _need_ you to be more careful. I know you want to help me, but,” he enunciates each word as clearly and soberly as he can while his hands slip even lower, no trace of subtlety left. Without much thought, he finally strokes over the whole rounded expanse of Dean’s butt, enjoying the soft give and hinted-at muscles of it, and cups it.

And just like that, he has two handfuls of _Dean Winchester’s_ lush behind, glorious and soft, and it is somewhere around this realization that all of his reason leaves him to make room for something else entirely, the urge to squeeze this beautiful piece of creation.

So he does. Firmly. Possessively, even. And simultaneously, both of them _moan._

His thoughts tumble all over each other, as do all of the sensations of his body, and there is Dean peering up at him from under his lashes, still with that cut on his forehead and that trust in his eyes, looking so gorgeous and tender that Castiel panics for a moment, squeezes Dean’s butt again because he doesn’t know what else to do and stutters out, “Y-you need to be more careful, Dean.”

Dean makes a soft, needy sound and squirms on top of Castiel in a way that makes it difficult to pinpoint whether the haze in Castiel’s mind stems from the alcohol or the warm proxomity to Dean anymore. Whatever it may be, the confusion about it is not enough to have Castiel move his hands – they stay right where they are, cupping the slightly wiggling and opulent butt, keeping themselves still.

“I’ll be more careful if you keep doin’ that,” Dean mumbles out and shoves a bit more against Castiel, a lazy grin on his flushed features.

“Do what?” Castiel asks elaborately, too taken in by this beautiful creature on top of him to listen too closely, or at all.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Dean grunts out, and his cheeks look more flaming, even richer in their colour. “Keep squeezing my ass.”

“You’re drunk, Dean,” Castiel pants out, but more than strict does he probably sound aroused. “We must not go too far, not while neither of us can consent.”

“Well, that’s why I told you to squeeze my ass, not fuck it.” He makes a displeased sound and shakes his butt from side to side, in a way that probably has him feel the effect he has on Castiel, the one that is straining up against Castiel’s zipper and Dean’s tummy. “Maybe some other time.”

“I can do that,” Castiel breathes out. “Squeezing you, I mean.”

“Been doin’ so for some time already, mmh?” Dean teases, still with that grin.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Castiel lies badly and with a flush of his own.

“Sure you don’t.” Dean snorts out a drunk little laughter. “Tell you what, though, Cas. I’ll give you all the ugly sweaters and gardens you want,” Dean whispers, nuzzling his nose against Castiel’s ear and pressing a horribly alluring kiss to its shell, “‘s long as you keep touching me.”

And what a pleasurable condition this is.

“Gladly,” Castiel agrees in a rush of breath, arousal and anticipating making their way out in a swoop. Now that he knows that he is allowed to, there is no holding him back anymore. So, he turns his head to the side to catch Dean’s parted and waiting lips with his own, enjoys the wiggle of his hips and the smile around Dean’s lips, pulls him in closer to himself, as close a he could be, with both hands on his butt and growing heat in his heart.


End file.
